Etched In Skin
by Riddell Lee
Summary: Challenge Response: The blood quill gives Harry an infection. As he slowly deteriorates, he refuses to go to the Infirmary until a certain Potions Master finds him in a corridor.


**Author's Note**

I've been meaning to try my hand at this challenge for a long time - years, in fact - but I've never had time. Granted, I don't have the time right now either but it was Friday the 13th and it demanded to be written. So, here's a little one-shot based off a challenge I saw at Potions&Snitches.

**Challenge:** The blood quill Madame Umbridge makes Harry use night after night for detention ends up giving him an infection in his hand. How does Snape find out about it?

* * *

**Etched In Skin**

* * *

"—which is most effective when attempting to vanish inanimate objects of a non-solid nature."

Harry gritted his teeth as he followed Professor McGonagall's lecture about vanishing spells. The smallest movement of his hand sent searing pain up his wrist, making the task of copying notes more like torture than anything else. He put his quill down and allowed his hand to hang, lifeless, off the edge of his desk. It burned and throbbed, but he resisted the urge to cradle it. Harry glanced up at the clock for the hundredth time, his shoulders slumping when he saw that they still had another half hour to go.

"Am I boring you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry snapped his eyes back to Professor McGonagall. She had paused in her lecture and her lips were pursed. No doubt his constant scanning of the clock had attracted her attention. His face grew hot as he felt the eyes of his classmates swivel in his direction.

"Uh, no Professor," Harry mumbled and he quickly picked up his quill. His head of House watched him for a moment before returning to her lecture, and Harry struggled not to look at the clock again.

He knew he should keep his mouth shut in Umbridge's classes. By now he ought to have learned his lesson. He couldn't go on cutting open his hand every night, and if the last two weeks were anything to go by, his injury was only getting worse. Deepening the words with every line, refusing to give it a chance to heal itself before slicing it open again. He'd ripped up one of his socks into makeshift bandages in order to hide the gaping wound from prying eyes.

And he didn't want to look at it either.

"Harry?"

Harry glanced at Hermione, surprised that she wasn't hanging onto Professor McGonagall's every word. Her eyes flickered down to his bandaged hand, and her brows knitted with worry. If she tried to tell McGonagall now—Harry shook his head and she sighed, returning to her notes.

She just didn't understand why he refused to seek help.

He shook his head in an effort to clear the strange fuzziness that was trickling into his mind. They would be tested on vanishing spells during OWL's and he _needed_ to concentrate. But he had barely written a few sentences when the pain reached such a crescendo that he was forced to drop his quill again. Harry glowered at his sheet of parchment; at the illegible script he had sloppily penned.

Fine.

Harry pushed his paper away from him and let his hand hang from the desk instead, his eyes trained on Professor McGonagall's pacing. He had detention again tonight, and he had a feeling that he shouldn't strain himself beforehand. Twenty-four minutes later, he stuffed his things clumsily into his bag with his left hand and left the classroom without glancing at either Ron or Hermione. Yes, he knew they were worried about him but he didn't want to hear their concerns within earshot of Professor McGonagall.

If she went to Umbridge, they might just lose the one good teacher they had and it would be _his fault_.

"Harry, slow down!"

Harry came to a stop and glanced behind him where Hermione and Ron were struggling to catch up. She frowned and he saw her eyes flicker to his hand again. He shifted it so that his bag strap hid the bandages.

"You can't even take notes properly," she accused, meeting his eyes. "This has gone far enough, don't you think?"

"Yeah mate." Ron fidgeted, shooting Hermione a sideways glance before turning his gaze back on Harry. "You really should go to the Hospital Wing."

Harry shook his head and started walking down the corridor, leading them back to the common room. "You guys don't understand. _I can't_."

"Harry, your hand looked _really bad_ last night, and now—"

"Hermione," he cut across sharply, "what do you think will happen when I show up at detention tonight with my hand completely healed?" He looked back at her, taking grim satisfaction from the shocked look on her face. "You haven't considered it, have you?" he continued savagely. "What, did you think _she_ wouldn't notice?"

"But she can't do anything," Ron tried to say, but his words lost heart halfway through. Yeah, he knew perfectly well that she _could_ but Harry wanted spell it out for him anyway.

"She could have me stay up all night just to reopen it. Or, I dunno, maybe she'll just get more creative. What makes you think that she doesn't have worse things than blood quills hidden in her desk?" Harry shook his head. The fuzziness was getting worse. His temples twinged and thudded, and he resisted the urge to rub them.

"But McGonagall wouldn't let her do it! Not if she knew," Hermione protested.

"Yeah, and the next thing we know there's Educational Decree #462 that kicks McGonagall out of Hogwarts." Harry heaved a tired sigh, his head dropping to stare at his shoes. "I'm not going to risk that. Not after what _she_ did to Trelawney."

Hermione made a series of dismayed noises, and for a moment Harry thought she was on the edge of tears. "It's not fair," she finally said, and though she wasn't crying, her voice shook.

"Dumbledore could stop her," Ron said softly as they reached the portrait hole. "She can't get rid of him."

"Yet," Harry muttered, but he had to admit that had a difficult time seeing Umbridge throwing Dumbledore out of Hogwarts. The headmaster hadn't been particularly aware of Harry's existence this year though. Save for his hearing, the man had ignored him and Harry was feeling too resentful at the moment to ask for help. Or maybe he was just scared Dumbledore wouldn't listen to him this time either.

He certainly doubted he'd be able to get an audience with him.

"Promise me, Harry," Hermione said as Ron gave the password and they climbed through. "If it gets any worse, go to Dumbledore."

Harry didn't reply. He couldn't make that promise. "Maybe," he said stiffly. He couldn't resist anymore – he rubbed his temples, feeling the headache pound against his skull. "I'm not very hungry. You two go down to dinner without me."

"You sure?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, I'm going to try to get some work done before detention tonight."

Hermione raised her eyebrow. "Why don't I whip up a quick batch of Murtlap Essence for you, instead?"

And Harry's face bore the semblance of a smile for the first time that day.

* * *

Etched In Skin

* * *

At seven o'clock that evening Harry trudged down to Umbridge's office, wishing he could have brought the bowl of Murtlap Essence with him. He had rinsed his hand off too, worried that the cow might notice the leftover residue and punish him because of it. Wrapped once again in what used to be a sock, Harry wondered whether she would ask him to remove it. She hadn't at his last four detentions. The sight of his swollen hand, raw and sticky had probably disgusted her. Harry's lip curled, she _ought_ to look at what she was doing to him, shouldn't she? Face it.

At the same time, he was grateful he wouldn't be forced to stare at it himself.

He knocked on her office door with his left hand, resigning himself to the next few hours. He hadn't yet cried. He had winced, maybe even allowed a small grunt to pass his lips but he refused to give her more than that. He _couldn't_ allow himself to be broken by her. He'd faced pain before, much worse than this.

"Come in."

She sounded like they were about to have tea together. What a sick woman. Harry barely cast her a glance as he took his usual seat, the black quill lying atop a piece of parchment. It had looked so _harmless_ that first detention. Now the sight of the black feather made his stomach clench. His heart gave an odd flutter, and he sternly told himself to stop thinking about it.

Stop thinking about the way it would draw the blood out of his hand, how it would etch the words over and over into the back of his hand. How the weak scab would crack and weep, staining his pathetic attempt at first aid. His inflamed flesh would cry and flush, the pink turn red and angry. How deep was it already? Would he see his bones before the end of the week, exposed to the merciless quill and the words he hated so much?

"You know what to do, Mr. Potter."

And he did.

His hand was on fire immediately. The pain knocked him breathless, but he refused to give in. Chewing his tongue, hoping that his headache would distract him he kept writing. He could see Wormtail in his minds eye, preparing to slice off his hand. He could hear the sickening thud and the splash, could hear the awful gut-wrenching screaming that had filled the graveyard. And as he destroyed his hand, he wondered what would hurt more than that.

After a while, he could barely read his handwriting. Even though he was going slowly, his hand was shaking so badly that all he could see were squiggles across the parchment. The acrid smell of blood wafted in his direction, cloying his senses. He wanted to throw up, vomit all over the pink walls, the stupid kitten dishes, his parchment full of blatant lies. Old pain clashed with new, and several times he had to swallow down the tears that threatened to roll down his face.

But he refused to look at his hand.

Harry didn't know how long he had sat there in torturous silence when Umbridge walked over to him. He paused and glanced up at her, the tremor of his hand making it difficult to hold the quill – let alone write with it. She nodded approvingly, her eyes soaking in his hand with revolting interest. He took a quivering breath and followed her gaze.

_Merlin save me._

The white cloth was stained brilliant crimson, so damp that excess blood gathered along the edges and dripped to the desk. He could only imagine what lay beneath it, the cavernous trench that dug into his hand. A mutilation he'd rather cut off than witness.

"I think that's all for tonight," she simpered and she returned to her desk. "I will see you tomorrow, same time."

His arm hung limply at his side as he left the office, horror in his eyes. Yes, one more tomorrow. And just in time for Defense Against the Dark Arts, he could only hope he escaped her lesson detention free. He _needed_ not just the oncoming weekend to recuperate but all of next week too.

Fierce burning pain traveled up his hand and into his arm. It felt like he'd burned it, scorched the flesh clean off his bones. He took a great shuddering breath, his heart fluttering in his chest again. Hermione would throw a fit – tell him to go to Dumbledore even though that wouldn't help. He didn't even want to let her see it but the Murtlap Essence…

When he reached the common room he realized just how late it was. On a table in the corner was his bowl of Murtlap Essence with a note, explaining that she and Ron had gone to bed and to take care of himself. Tears pricked at his eyes and he hastily wiped them on his sleeve. Without even bothering to take off his bandage, he sunk it into the bowl full of the amazing frothy yellow mixture and whimpered with relief.

He carried it upstairs with him, keeping his hand immersed. He stayed up until the exhaustion threatened to knock him unconscious where he sat. He got into bed, hanging his arm over the side of the bed, dripping Murtlap Essence and blood onto the floor and let sleep wash over him.

* * *

Etched In Skin

* * *

The next morning, Harry was sure his arm had fallen off while he'd slept. Everything below his elbow seared with pain and his hand was surely on fire. His tongue was thick and fuzzy in his mouth, and he couldn't for the life of him open his eyes. His pounding head made him feel like he was swaying back and forth, twirling the world beneath him.

He felt horrible.

"Harry?" Ron's voice.

Harry groaned and didn't open his eyes. "'m skip breakfast," he grumbled. He was sure that anything he ate would come back up anyway. "Late detention."

"I'll bring something back with me," Ron whispered, as though somehow aware that sound stabbed knives into his brain. There was a rustle, some quiet murmuring and Harry heard footsteps descend the staircase. He supposed Ron had told the others not to bother him.

_Thanks, mate._

Harry tried to go back to sleep, but now that he was awake the pain fought against it. But he must have slept for a few moments because he jerked awake, drenched in sweat. He blinked as the salty liquid dripped into his eyes. Gingerly, he sat up and his head pounded. He groaned, and clenched his forehead with his left hand. The migraine wasn't swayed however and continued to beat against his skull with sharp metal knuckles.

Sticky, and so _hot_, Harry stumbled out of his bed and into the shower. But he was so dizzy that he sunk to the ground, sitting in on the tiled floor while his left hand fumbled with the tap to turn on a burst of freezing water on his face.

_Ahhh._

The cold drenched the fire. He leaned his head against the wall, trying to take deep breaths as the frigid water poured down. Clean bathroom, the smell of disinfectant and soap, and…

Something rank reached his noise. It was thick and putrid, like decomposing fruit and molding blood. It made him gag, and Harry had to rush from the shower to the toilet – spraying water everywhere. He had nothing in his stomach, but that didn't stop violent hacks that shook his frame. Stomach acid burned his throat as it shot up, the potent taste doing little to quell the nausea. He put his injured hand on the rim of the seat and another wave of the scent hit him, sending him into second fit of retching.

His hand. It was his hand that smelt like that.

Harry glanced at it, at the dried blood and Murtlap Essence on the cloth. He crawled back to the shower and as he sat under it, began unwrapping his hand. "Stupid, stupid," he repeated over and over. The cloth had dried _into_ his injury and he had to rip it off now. He should have taken it off last night, before it had become part of his flesh. With a mighty yank it came off and Harry cried out, biting his lip so hard that he tasted blood.

His hand was bleeding afresh now, and he saw the sickly yellow puss oozing out of it. Trembling he tried to wash it off, but being under direct pressure was unbearable. He could see how ruddy the skin had become, giant and puffy with glossy edges. It seeped and not with just puss. There was a clear liquid with a consistency like snot as well.

How was he supposed to suffer through one more detention?

Harry had no idea. His whole body shook, and although his hand still felt hot he was cold. He turned the tap the other way and warm water fell on him instead. He stayed in as long as he dared, trying to hide his mangled hand from the water. And after he'd dressed, he cut up another one of his socks. Trust Hermione to see this and _not_ drag him to the infirmary.

Ron hadn't returned yet.

Deciding to wait for him in the common room, Harry headed down. As soon as he reached the landing, he felt cold again. He shivered and walked to the fire, sitting in the closest armchair. After a few moments, he heard the portrait hole open behind him and he looked around.

"Over here," he said, and grimaced when his voice came out hoarse.

Ron's eyes widened, his eyebrows disappearing into his hair. "You look terrible," he said and he held out a piece of toast for him. Just the sight of it made Harry want to hurl again and he shook his head. "You sure you don't want to go to—"

"No." He slowly got to his feet, another wave of dizziness assaulting him. "And I'll pass on the toast. Not hungry."

"Well, come on we're going to be late."

* * *

Etched In Skin

* * *

Whatever Umbridge had been doing to Potter during their detentions was obviously making an impact. Last lesson, Snape had received markedly fewer glares from the Gryffindor. Indeed, the boy had barely said a word - even when he attempted to bait him with sneering remarks.

Today was something else though.

He strode down the hallway to the classroom, parting the group of Gryffindor and Slytherin students waiting outside and opened the door with a flick of his wand. One sweep of the group revealed that Weasley and Potter were running late, and his lip curled. He waited outside, allowing his students to filter into the classroom and he saw the red-haired boy rushing toward him.

"Harry's coming," he managed, and Snape saw the worry in the boy's eyes. Had Potter sent the boy ahead so that he wouldn't be in trouble too? But of course, the golden boy valued his friends _so much_. His lip curled and Weasley dashed into the classroom. Snape had every intention of following him inside – Potter could open doors on his own after all – when he saw the boy.

The _nerve_ of him!

He was _walking_. Not just that. He was walking _slowly_, taking far too much care about where he put his feet. The boy didn't even look up as he came near, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the ground. But the behavior was so _odd_ that Snape didn't immediately shout at him. He stood in front of the door instead, assuming his most intimidating posture, preparing to berate the insolent child the moment he looked up.

Potter walked straight into him and stumbled back, seeming to struggle to regain his balance. Snape's lip curled as he watched the boy straighten up again.

"Tell me, are you so arrogant that you—"

Potter had looked up at last and Snape faltered for a moment. He was oddly flushed and there was a glossy sheen of sweat on the boy's forehead. Potter blinked a few times and then sucked in a panicked breath. "S-sorry Professor Snape," he muttered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Clearly," Snape interrupted. "But the world doesn't revolve around you, so don't expect your path to always be clear," he hissed and Potter's jaw clenched. Insolent and spoiled right down to the core, thinks that just because he's not feeling well he's above it all. "Five points from Gryffindor for your tardiness, now get inside."

* * *

Etched In Skin

* * *

Harry stumbled out of Umbridge's office that night, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest and staining his robes with blood. He couldn't help it, but it was a pointless attempt at comfort. She had made him go at it until past curfew, until he had been unable to hold the quill and tender touch wouldn't make him feel any better.

Was she trying to kill him?

His hand seared and burned, rebounding up his arm and into his skull. The agony numbed him to everything else and he didn't realize he was on the floor until his face pressed against the cold tiles. He shut his eyes, gasping for breath as his heart raced. He had to get up. He was only a few corridors away and if she decided to follow him—he couldn't let her see how she had destroyed him. How she had reduced him to nothing.

He held his hand in front of his eyes and watched it shake. The bandages were no longer merely soaked in blood. Dark yellow stained the cloth too, and as the horrid stench of infection suffocated him he heaved. His gut contracted and clenched, but nothing made its way up his throat. Figures – he didn't think he had anything left.

"Get up," he told himself, ignoring the tears in his eyes. He managed to stand up but black static invaded his brain, the pain and exhaustion knocking his knees weak. He took one trembling step and felt his legs give way.

But he never hit the ground.

Someone had seized his left arm at the elbow, and held him steady. He blinked blurrily and tried to look at the person helping him, but he couldn't focus his eyes. The dark shape shifted in and out of focus, but that nose looked familiar…

"Snape?" Harry muttered and his eyelids dropped as his body gave in to unconsciousness.

* * *

Etched In Skin

* * *

Snape often patrolled the corridors after dark. Besides needing little sleep, he found that Filtch paid more attention to Peeves than to the possibility that students were wandering about after curfew. Yes, Peeves was somewhat of an annoyance but Snape didn't think the poltergeist ranked above rule breakers in importance.

He was just wondering whether Filtch had found Peeves yet when he turned the corner and saw what looked like a bundle of robes lying on the floor at the end of the corridor. Had a house elf dropped a pair on the way to the wash? And then he saw the bundle move.

From the back he couldn't see who it was, but he had a pretty good idea. Umbridge's office was only a few paces behind him, and he couldn't think of anyone else that would be here at this hour. Snape walked swiftly toward him as the boy got gingerly to his feet, and Snape wondered if the Gryffindor had just fallen. But then he saw the tremors that rocked the boy's shoulders.

He was almost too late. The boy had started to fall when he reached him and he just barely managed to grab his arm. "Potter?" he asked sharply, but he didn't receive a response. Potter didn't even seem to have heard him. He swayed and turned to look at Snape, but he didn't seem to actually see him. After a moment in which Snape realized how much heat Potter radiated, the boy seemed to recognize him.

"Snape?" he croaked and the next moment, he was sliding to the floor in spite of Snape's attempts to hold him up upright.

"Potter," Snape said urgently and he gave the boy's arm a shake. Potter's head hung lifeless on his shoulders, and that was when he caught sight of Potter's other hand. Poorly bandaged, it was stained with blood, both old and new. He reached for the wrist, and as he brought the injury closer to him an atrocious smell filled his nostrils.

Fear struck him like he'd been hit over the head.

He knew the smell of infection well, and knew what came after. If gangrene had set in, if the hand was going septic—Potter might lose more than just his hand. Snape didn't waste a moment; he scooped the fifteen-year into his hands and was startled by how light he was. Then again, maybe it wasn't that surprising. He hadn't seen Potter eating regularly at meals for the last few weeks.

The Hospital Wing was closer than his office, and he opened the door with a wandless spell. "Poppy!" he shouted, and as he laid Potter in the closest bed the witch came out her office in a nightgown.

"Severus, what—"

"I need a fever reducer, and your strongest disinfectant. _Now_," he hissed and she dashed back into her office to retrieve the items. "Bring some Murtlap paste as well!" he called after her before turning back to Potter.

His breathing was labored, and his face wet with sweat. Snape grimaced and walked around the bed, bringing with him a trolley with fresh clean towels on it. He gently took the boy's hand and placed it on the clean surface. Pomfrey emerged from the office then, carrying a bottle with purple liquid, one with a pinkish hue, and a jar of bright yellow paste.

"What happened?" she asked, and she turned green as the smell of Potter's infected hand reached her.

"I don't know," Snape replied evenly, although he had a good idea _what_. He took out his wand and vanished the cloth Potter had used to wrap the injury up. Even though the flesh had swelled, blood and thick yellow puss streaming down the hand, he could still make out what the weeping cuts spelled.

_I must not tell lies_.

Snape's jaw clenched. It seemed that Umbridge's detentions were crueler than he had thought. Aided by the medi-witch, they cleaned and treated the boy's hand. Snape spelled the fever reducer straight into the boy's stomach, and after a moment added a nutrition and hydration potion as well.

He had always admired Pomfrey's medical skill, but as he looked down at Potters healed hand he saw the words _I must not tell lies_ were still etched into the skin. He knew he would have to talk to Umbridge about _restraint_. Perhaps Dumbledore could help him with that.

"He'll be fine after some rest," Madam Pomfrey said after a moment, and she wiped some of the sweat from Potter's brow.

Snape didn't answer. He nodded jerkily to her and got to his feet. He gave Potter one last sweeping look before turning to the door.

"S-sir, but Umbridge—"

Harry Potter's words behind him made him pause. The feeble, tired voice solidified his resolve to have a word with Umbridge. He didn't turn around, but before he left he offered a soft, "I will take care of her, Mr. Potter."

The door closed behind him with a snap.


End file.
